Maddeningly Loud and Incredibly Dangerous
by Pyreflies Painter
Summary: Let's admit it. We have all had our fair share of that feeling. The one that makes us feel so wonderful and happy and faraway. We welcome this. Because it's beautiful. But what does this entail for a man whom have distanced himself? Immunised himself from his own nature? How will Sherlock Holmes cope with that maddeningly loud and incredibly dangerous feeling we call love?


**A/N: First of all, I would like to thank you for choosing to read this fanfic. Out of all the wild, passion-driven stories in this fandom (many of which are distinguished), you took time to click on that little tab and enter unknown territory. Thank you very much. I am honoured.**

**Secondly, I thought it might be of interest to you that this is my first Sherlock fanfic (well, a purely Sherlock one– my other one was a crossover with the Doctor and a certain book series). Therefore, I am still flailing around like a newborn (though I have spent considerable time in the past two weeks getting used to the characters). Please, please, please, please for the love of Johnlock, please tell me whether this fanfic of mine is satisfactory, great or not at all. I would greatly appreciate it. Thank you, in forward. If it is OOC too, would you please grace me with the knowledge that I have been?**

**Thirdly, I hope you do, indeed, like this fanfic. If it comes across angst-y, I'm terribly sorry. I am quite good at humour and will begin a few humour fics dedicated to this fandom soon. So things will be more bright.**

**And, I think that's it. Sorry for this long note. It was... necessary. **

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to the great and much beloved Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whom through his novels and magic pen have shaped a new literary genre and continues to delight generations forward with his loveable, genuine characters and one Sherlock Holmes' unnatural brilliance. This fanfic is based on and dedicated to the BBC Sherlock series, created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss- two people whom are currently ruining many fangirls' lives.**

**Fanfic cover: I have photoshop–ed the photo for my own means. Sources from the interwebz and Amy Kinley's _Arrival of the Birds_ fanvid on youtube. Check it out. It's Johnlock. Some brushes that were used were downloaded from deviantart.**

* * *

_**Maddeningly Loud and Incredibly Dangerous**_

It is maddeningly loud and incredibly dangerous.

Surely a heart can't beat this fast? Or with such fervour? Long ago had I theorised that I am coming down with some form of rare illness that causes drastic consequences for the cardiovascular system. I had scoured books and articles for this _anomaly_. I have investigated and had come to the conclusion that perhaps I had something new. I had considered asking John if he'd heard of this before.

But that was the problem. _John_. John Watson. It is that name the causes this ailment of mine. It is his wretched smile that burns my blood. It is his noble soul that causes this untreatable physical ache. His daily presence and his unwavering loyalty that tightens my chest.

_I do not understand._

My own great mind cannot genuinely ponder the cause for this effect. Every effect has a cause. They are a mutually dependent condition. Mine lies within a blonde, jumper-wearing, short doctor. Why is that? This is a form of logic out of my bounds. Or perhaps it is not logic at all? A rather peculiar case, really. The most interesting case of my profession. I have been at it for three months and I have yet to reach a reasonable conclusion, much less an answer. I tighten my hold on my gun as impatience and eventual resignation on the matter becomes more likely. For three months I have investigated and acceptable results have refused to form. I can't just 'give up'!

I grit my teeth and the action triggers an automatic message in my brain, sending the impulse down my arm and into my finger. I raise the gun and feed the wall some bullets. One. Two. Three. Mrs Hudson shouts at me from downstairs. Well, either I release my anger on a bullet-tolerant, non-living wall or I throttle my flatmate, the cause of my distress. I need my doctor. I shan't kill him. His death would not benefit me in any form and it will give dear Sally another excuse to point fingers at me.

And how would I be able to kill him? The idea is... disturbing. For reasons unknown.

I cock my head in confusion.

Why is it disturbing? Why does it cause pain? Why is the notion of a dead John so... unacceptable? No. Unfortunate? Awful? Inconsolable?

The repetitive '?' is a detriment for my hard drive. I throw away the gun (it skitters on the floor and hits John's chair), lower my hand and sink my body into the sofa, head resting against the arm of the couch as I begin to purge my hard drive of unnecessary data, hopefully excising the frustrating '?' in the process.

Aha. There is but another mystery. My mind palace is corrupted. Has been for three months. By a virus. A _John_-shaped virus.

Every file held a distinct trace of the John virus. Hmmm. Turns out my mind palace has been completely permeated and invaded by the Dr. Watson parasite. Even the ones I have filed under the 'significance diminishing' folders are infected. He had left _nothing_. He had implanted himself in every single living fact in my mind palace and sucked the accuracy right out of them.

I hate him.

Of all the things! Why couldn't he have at least spared my knowledge of chemistry? Kill the _Anderson files_, John. You _idiot_! Not my precious data on catalytic converters in cars! Now, I cannot even remember the nitrogen bases without really _thinking_!

Wait.

Wait...

Information received. Information restored. Adenine. Thymine. Guanine. Cytosine– John. John Watson. Doctor John Hamish Watson–

No.

John is _not_ a unit for a DNA molecule. I make an attempt to remove the parasite but it was insistent and stubborn. As stubborn as my dear friend.

Friend.

I test-taste the word.

It is wrong.

Unbelievably, unacceptably wrong. Mycroft needs to get rid of that word. Pass a law against the inclusion of the barbaric word 'friend' on the dictionary. Anyone who insists against it should get sent to secret slave labour camps in Russia.

_Friend_. There was a hollow aching to that word. It seemed... insufficient. I groan as I stretch out on the couch and steeple my fingers together. _Thinking_. I need a smoke. If not, a nicotine patch, but _no_. I _ran_ out. I bite back the itching to shoot the wall again. Instead, I follow an organised and systematic plan.

Considering all the existing data (which is piteously minute), if I really wish to achieve the elimination of this maddening illness, I am left with only one option; part from John. Either he leaves, or I leave. I must confess that I do not like this course of action. It was unnecessary and I _need_ John. Though reasons are provided (such as an enthusiastic helper during cases, an excellent doctor, marksman and coffee maker, able to keep me preoccupied and the ennui far, far away), the true motivation is unknown. I shove away my cluelessness (_**GET OUT!**_) and proceed.

Where was I? Right. I _need_ John. Only course of action is only to be used under extreme and desperate circumstances.

Therefore, I must achieve a reasonable compromise. I glance at the laptop's clock– three pm –and realise that I have twenty minutes to solve this puzzle. Twenty minutes before the doctor walks into the room, surely with the shopping (and my nicotine patches _THANK YOU JOHN_). I need to solve this mystery if I wish for our partnership to remain intact. The mystery behind the clear correlation on my diminishing state of wellbeing and John's presence. But how to start? I know nothing of this _thing_.

Perhaps it is time to resort to expert advice. I turn my head to glare at my phone, sitting promisingly beside the violin bow. I run through a mental list of who to call, crossing out ones I am completely unable to. End result: – – –

The gun glints. Enticement, but that which I block. John won't be happy.

Quite frankly, I could only confide in Mycroft, but the prospect is unattractive. Not to mention that I'd probably insult him within the first twenty seconds and achieve little benefit. Besides, he will tell Mummy and things will get _worse_.

Mental note: Do _not_ tell Mycroft. AT ALL.

Clueless and helpless. Well, aside from John. Perhaps I could extract information unknowingly. I toy with the idea. No. John's perceptiveness is alarmingly _good_. I was lucky to get away with the Baskerville incident and even luckier to still have him beside me after that time. Lestrade says that I was even more fortunate that I've met someone like John.

Though I understood the detective inspector's comment, I cannot comprehend his facial expression at that moment. I close my eyes as I touch the tips of my steepled fingers on my chin. My visual memory– as clear as ever and just slightly contaminated by the Dr. Watson virus –conjures Lestrade and I by a body. The scent of the river Thames, its waves a lulling sound in the backdrop of a crime scene. It was a case I have taken last week, all just in the need to _do_ something aside from muse about my John-generated affliction.

My mind was very deeply engaged in the case, despite its despairing simplicity (the transparency of the average human brain, _why_ even bother?), when the detective inspector cleared his throat, rather awkwardly. He had commenced by mumbling about John's absence. The reminder sparked the physical ache at that moment. John was _out_ with one of his girlfriends, whom is now his ex-girlfriend for I have none-too-accidentally alienated by commenting on her dim-wittedness. How John could stand being around a woman who doesn't understand the difference between _weariness _and _tiredness_, I could not begin to fathom.

Nevertheless, I was left alone on the case. Lestrade thought we 'had a row', to put it in his words.

I had replied as I thrusted my magnifying glass to the unnatural head abrasion, "He's out. We did not have a row. Why are you asking?"

I admit that I did sound angry which would have explained Lestrade's then apprehensive look. "I just want you to be careful. You're extremely lucky to find someone who'll be with you," and that was it. That _face_. Twinkling eyes of knowing, eyebrows creased in wariness, mouth set in _pity_. Why would Lestrade pity _me_? _Me_?

_Click_. Realisation. My eyes snap open.

Perhaps he knows something I don't. Perhaps that is why he is pitying me. Has Lestrade the brain to realise I've been having a strange disorder? Or was it chance? Nonetheless, he _knows_ what it is. Perhaps even knows its cure!

I turn to the phone. No. Can't. I'm not going to ask him for help. Especially after his reluctance to share information with me! He won't be winning any favours anytime soon! NO! Even if it is a remarkably _good_ case. Even if he gives me full authority to insult Anderson.

My eyes touch the laptop clock. Ten past three. I can do this.

I check my mental file on Lestrade. It is a fruitless investment and I lost five seconds. I am absolutely certain that Lestrade will not be suffering any heart-related disorders which I have that I would not have already identified. I change tack. What is it that the detective has that I don't (aside from features/lifestyle/diet/hobbies/mind)?

The list was short: a ridiculously unfaithful wife, an often-removed wedding ring, _emotions_–

_Click_.

Emotions?

I bolt upright. My eyes widen and– there it is. The maddeningly loud and incredibly dangerous _thump-a-thump!_ of a heart beat, albeit faster. Much faster and it was currently racing and this cannot be fear and this was unlike what occurred at Dartmoor and this is entirely unwelcome.

No.

This was denial.

No.

No.

No.

No.

NO.

_**NO**_.

Yes. I open my mouth and a sound comes out. It sounds like a choke. Emotions? I was having... emotions? Feelings? The gooey sap that stirs inside?

I clutch at my chest... then starts clawing at it, ignoring the blazing trails of heat my fingernails left behind and the pain that racks my body as the beating accelerates and the beating was going too fast and this is completely and utterly _improbable_ and _impossible_ and...

_Thump-a-thump_–

_ Thump-a-thump_–

_ Thump-a-thump_–

_ Thump-a-thump_–

"NO!" Suddenly, I am on my hands and knees and the gun is in my hand. On my feet, I start shooting at the wall more vigorously. Trying to drown out the incessant _beating_. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Click. I throw the gun away. Out of bullets and still thirsty for more. Why did I waste the bullets on the wall! I could have just shot myself! Ended this... development. Ended the beating heart.

A feeling. An emotion. I was immune. I was distant. I was constant. I was finished. I was perfect. I was _gone_. Why is it _back_? How is it _back? _My frame shook in disbelief and my mind just managed to whisper the answer.

_John_? Why did you impair me? I fall to my knees as I shook, my breathing faster. Permanently impaired. Imperfect. The mind and heart can't work together, John! What did you _**do**_? You gave me emotions and... if I had emotions... then... the connection...

They made sense. All the signs and symptoms. Everything made sense. It was such a classic idea. A _fucking_ cliche. And now I am speaking barbaric language. Thank you so, so much for your grace. Your smile. Your laughs. Your jumpers. Your noble, noble soul. Your saving gunshots. Your joy. Your existence. Your insufficient _friendship_. Even the films you have forced me into completes this mystery. Solves this puzzle. It was clear on their faces. On their longing faces. On their sickening _need_.

They were _in love_, John. I don't want to be one of them yet you made me. You have put this notion in my head. Implanted it and it's maddeningly loud and incredibly dangerous temptations. You see? I'm starting to _want_ you. I'm wondering what it would _feel_. Feel for your eager lips to caress mine. Your heat against mine. Your eyes to focus on me and only _me_.

Would you return it? Can you go down this path you have so foolishly built? Did you mean this? I grimace. Of course you hadn't. You were with– a ridiculously thick woman I have no decency to remember her name –someone just the other day. You wouldn't have tried to make me jealous (but you have, not that I realised until this painful moment _thankyouverymuch_) but it wouldn't be in you to do so.

So who's to blame? Is it me? I was _immune_, wasn't I?

There is physical comfort all of a sudden. I am on the couch, once more. But it is unlike the turmoil boiling inside my body. The one attempting to rip out. My mind palace is missing. There is just an existent _pain_. Head turns. Fifteen minutes past three. _Five minutes_. Couldn't your beautiful (have I used that adjective just then? Did you see?) soul have spared me more time to work? To realign myself? Somehow revert myself to my cold, sociopathic nature? I don't _want_ this.

But I... _want_ you. I _need_ you. _My John_. _My dear John_. At least the only of course of action is now even more unlikely. How could I _leave_?

Maddeningly loud. Incredibly dangerous. You play a fragile game. It's not fair. Will you, though? I'm curious. Will you reciprocate this maddening disorder? There was an indelible attraction to that idea. That seed of thought. I can see myself content. Happy, too and that's not an emotion I _like_. I normally do not predict good fortune in the future, believe me. The future used to be non-existent. The present was all that there is.

I hate you even more now. My energy is suddenly lost. Expelled in all this _emotion_. I throw my arm in front of my face. Perhaps it will just leave. Come and go. Like most ailments. Perhaps it will be passing. A fleeting recognition. I look forward to going back... I think.

...

Doubt.

Now, I really do need a smoke. I would like you to hurry for the nicotine patches to come, but I don't want you to hurry either. I _need_ time. Give me time. I'll fix this. I will fix this. I've seen it in everybody; Lestrade's unchaste wife, Anderson's own adulterous being, all your insignificant relationships. They all ended and they will all end and they won't be devastating. They can't be!

But it's also a motivator, isn't it? A motivation to kill? Is it really that powerful?

Will mine be powerful enough to hold you?

_The door swings open. No ring. Rustle of plastic. Shuffle of feet. _

"Sherlock?"

He's early. He just _had_ to be.

"Sherlock? What the _hell_ happened? Mrs Hudson called me. Said you were throwing a fit– and worse than your other ones,"

_Thump! _

_ Thump! _

_ Thump! _

_ Thump!_ How is it that a man's steps on stairs can reflect on my heart's erratic beating?

Oh John. Why me?

I have seven seconds, accounting weight of shopping. A flash of information dazzled my mind. Amazing. The data arrived. Finally. It was complete. My investigation.

But now, an action.

I think... I'm afraid.

John.

I'm lonely and it's cold and it's dark and I'm _afraid_.

And that's how it should be.

I turn on my side. Eyes closed. I don't have to pretend that I am sulking. I already am. John steps in and silence fills the flat. The shaking subsides just in time, but my chest is still tightening. I dig claws into my own body, attempting to stop the booming. For God's sake, just _stop_. "Sherlock, will you explain?" Shuffle of feet. Rustle of plastic. How could I have not realised? "Sherlock?" Stop saying my name. It hurts.

John sighs in resignation before he heads towards the kitchen. There is the unloading of burden on a much abused table. "Sherlock?" I said stop it. He sighs again.

Footsteps. Towards me.

A brush of fingers against my shoulder, an electrifying contact despite the layers of cloth. I try not to shiver. "Sherl–" I shrug off his hand before it could land and impale me.

"Fine."

I've done it.

Have I resisted you?

He turns on his heel.

HA!

Take that!

I have restraint!

_I'm strong enough! _

A footstep. He plans to leave. John?

John?

_John_?

Don't– don't leave.

Don't leave me.

There is a rustle of clothing and he makes his way out. Time slows down, each space between the steps much too long and given too much time for worthless reflection.

Or are you giving me time to think? Your soul trying to spare me? Or snare me?

But... My mind is frantic as it searched for answer. A solution.

Result: – – –

I am unable to. And yet, I recognise...

This is wrong.

I am up before I realise it and John's nearly gone. I reach out and grip his arm, he whips around in shock. Mouth opens– thank you.

"Sher–," the rest of his speech was cut off as I press our lips together. Pull him towards me. He is still and I... I am... I cannot describe it. A flutter of easiness... A singing in my blood as it burns oh so joyously... I shook again, but I let the burning passion consume me. Allowed myself assault to that ache, that fiery power that moves. That powerful, intense, indescribable _burning_. I pull him closer, winding my arms around him. The maddeningly loud and incredibly dangerous _thump-a-thump_! returns, but it is satisfied. _I_ am satisfied. How could I have starved myself like this?

"Thank you," I whisper against his mouth before I pull away to look into his kind eyes. Of course I can't leave, nor can he. But what I have done... I lay myself bare to you John. I am at your mercy. Can you read my face? My actions? Will you come with me? Or will this make you leave even more? I cannot even think if it will or not. What happened to probability? To straightforward answers? To logic? To sense? To my mind? I can't think at all.

I have destroyed it for you.

I should have checked if you responded. Did you? I'm sure you did. I'm certain that your fingers wound into my hair, or was I mistaken? I _know _that you sighed into the kiss, or was I imagining that? Don't make me hope, John. _Please_.You've broken me already. Broken the carefully built system of Sherlock Holmes. _Think, don't feel_. You've broken that.

Your eyes look back, holding a justifiable pride at changing me. It's up to you now.

There is a twitch at the corner of your mouth.

You answer my questions– my damnable questions and hopes.

It is maddeningly loud and incredibly dangerous.


End file.
